Without acknowledging me, the old man lifted the steaming pot. Whistling softly to himself, as the pale liquid exited the spout, he filled both cups to the lip. Sitting the pot down, he took up the dice. As they rolled in his wrinkled grasp, his face lit with an absent smile.
I moved beside the table. “Who are you? How did you get here?”
He just sat there, rolling the dice.
“I said who are you?”
Still rolling, he replied, “I think a better question is… Who are you?”
“Someone who doesn’t like games.”
Creases curling, his smile widened. He picked up his cup and tasted his tea. “Oh, that’s quite good.” I waited as he drank more. Pausing, the old man eyed me over the rim. “Take off your clothes.”
“What?” I laughed.
“I need to see.” My brows arched, and he added, “The scars. Let me see them.”
“You can see well enough.”
“I need to see them all.”
“Why?”
He placed his cup down with a slight tremble. Standing, his tan linen trousers and brown shirt hung off his slim bones. “I must know their rate of progression. How long since the last one formed?”
“I’m not sure.”
“I doubt that. How long? Where is it?”
“Who are you?” I asked again.
“Wasn’t that question not already addressed?”
“No. That question was evaded.”
He sighed deeply. “This would be easier if you would let me see.”
“Why?”
Lifting a skinny finger, he pointed. “Now, I know I answered that one.”
“Nope. Not that one either.”
He got tetchy. “I want you to take off your clothes.”
“So you said.”
“I must know how far they’ve progressed.”
“You said that, too. But you’re going to have to explain a hell of a lot more if you want me naked.”
“Ah…” he muttered. “I misjudged. The fatherly figure is ineffective.”
“Meaning?”
The old man waved a dismissive hand at my question. With a shake of his head, the space around him twisted. Magic tinged the air. It didn’t have the exact feel of a glamour spell, but the results were the same. The air blurred and shimmered, and his body began to change. Angles rounded. Contours softened. Proportions altered. In less than a minute, the air had settled and the man was gone. The woman who took his place was a definite improvement.
About my height and age, wrapped from breasts to thighs in a pale dress of shimmery white, her statuesque body was toned and shapely. A mane of white hair draped her long back like a heavy snowscape. Pushing aside the thick strands curling about her shoulders, she drew my attention to her oval face. The proportions were near perfection.
She peered at me intently; her eyes calm, frozen pools. Her lips turned upward, slow and sly. Her question was obvious: is this better?
“So,” I said. “Which is your real form?”
“Both,” she replied. “Neither. Whichever answer pleases you.”
“None of this pleases me. But I’m guessing you know that and don’t give a damn.”
Not denying it, the woman moved closer. She put a hand on my face, and I jumped. Her flesh resonated with multiple vibrations. It was more than touching another Shinree when they were channeling. Far more.
Her smile matured at my reaction. Fingers drifting over me, she traced the scars on my cheek, making them pulse and burn. Traveling off the side of my face and over my jaw, her stroll was slow and methodical, and wondrous. I leaned into her touch, wanting more. My eyes longed to close, yet I was far from relaxed. My heart was racing. My nerves jerked like she was tugging each one.
I winced as the rhythm bore down through my skin. “You feel like…”
She fingered the collar of my shirt. “Yes…?”
“Magic. A lot of—” My throat seized as the vibrations swelled in my veins. They sunk deeper, into my chest. “Gods, how much are you channeling?”
“Nothing.” Her grip slid around to the back of my neck. “Magic sustains me.”
I struggled to think pass the euphoria. “Because you’re Shinree.”
“No. Because I am Shinree made.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Yes, you do.” She dropped her hands and the sensations left me. I tried not to be disappointed. I tried even harder to pretend her sudden absence hadn’t made me ill.
Shaking off the abrupt change, my thoughts came rushing back, and she was right. I did understand. “You’re a spell. But, you can’t be. You’re…”
“Beautiful?”
“Yes,” I laughed. “But how can a spell walk and talk? How can you be aware?”
“I become what I must. What I am needed to be. As have you, L’tarian.”
My amusement evaporated. “You know who I am.”
“Of course.”
“How long have you been here? Do you have a name?”
Her pale eyes widened. “So many questions.”
“I find you—a living spell—locked alone inside a centuries old chamber, surrounded by waterfalls and magic, and all you’ve done is try and get me naked. Yeah, I have questions.”
A hard edge entered her tone. “I need to see.”
“And I need the truth. You give me that. I’ll show you whatever the hell you want.”
THIRTY NINE
Sitting across from her at the table, I watched the woman-shaped spell ‘magic’ the tea out of existence. As the pot became a clay pitcher of deep red liquid, her white eyes lifted. They were deep, soulful, penetrating. Ancient.
“Please.” She gestured at the pitcher. “Enjoy.”
“I prefer real wine.”
“You will notice no difference.” She smiled, wanting me to feel at ease.
What I wanted was to yell, to demand what I came for—to stop feeling every second tick by like a blow to my chest. But the tablets were nowhere in sight. All I could do was look casual, decline with a firm, “No thanks,” and settle deeper into my chair for the next part of the show.
“Do you play?” She held out her hand. The old man’s dice were in her palm. With a shake, she tossed them across the table. The dice, made of bone, came to rest in front of me. Runes decorated the sides, but the marks kept shifting and fluctuating, like they couldn’t decide what to be.
She reached for the pitcher. Her hand, as she filled both cups, altered like the dice. In the blink of an eye, her skin shifted from young to old, dark to light, female to male, and back again. By the time she’d returned the pitcher to the table the hiccups in her appearance had stopped.
She pushed a cup in my direction. Her hand brushed mine, and the underlying vibration of magic slapped at my nerves. “You’re dangerous,” I said.
“I thought I was beautiful?”
“You are. This face is exquisite. But it isn’t your only one.”
“It is the one that all probabilities say will please you most.”
“You mean the one you’re counting on to lower my guard?” Her silence implied I was right. “How long have you been here?”
“As long as I have been.”
“If you’re a spell, who created you?”
“Why you, of course.”
“Me?” I laughed. “I think I’d remember.”
“Forgive me, L’tarian. I meant your kind.”
“Do you know which of my kind?”
“All of them.”
I ran an exasperated hand over my face. “How is it possible for all of us to have created you?”
“How do all impossible things become possible?”
“With magic,” I nodded.
She smiled again. It was a sultry, meaningful look
that begged me to forget she was a spell—then it was the kind benevolence of thin aged lips, then the sweet puckered innocence of youth. Two more changes cycled through, almost too fast for my eyes to register, before her perfect, expressive mouth returned and said, “This is where it all began.”
“All?”
“Is that not what I said?”
Gods, she was worse than talking to Malaq. “You mean the tablets, or the crown, or—?”
“I mean all. This chamber is where I was born, where the first mining tunnel was dug into the western mountains. Where the Crown of Stones was created, as well as the tablets you seek. It is where the first Shinree spell was ever cast.”
I glanced around, wishing I could see it: the single most important moment in Shinree history; the moment that defined us as a race. “If this is the birthplace of our magic, then the keep above was built as some sort of temple.”
“That was the designer’s intention, yes. He hoped to create a grand structure to replace the modest shrine that had stood since the beginning. Back when the devout would come each day, to worship and to pray.”
“Your words imply they stopped coming. Why?”
“As the Shinree’s power and influence grew, the bulk of the population shifted away from the mining that had once supported them. They moved down from the mountains and made cities. The cities expanded into each other creating a single sprawling empire. Slaves were sent to work the mines. Most Shinree preferred not to travel into the mountains simply to pray. Only those with the strongest faith still came. They hoped erecting a place of majesty, something unique and imposing, would mesmerize the populace, drawing new acolytes and recalling those that had strayed.”
“Who were they praying to?”
“Me. They were in awe of my abilities, yet confounded by my existence. They could not accept that I was merely a spell of their own making. They wanted to understand and explain me, to fit me into their world. They could not.”
“They saw you as a higher power, as a god.”
“First, I was merely a symbol for their magic. From there, I became a named idol to praise for the good and blame for the bad; a manifestation of divine providence.”
Her word choice was not accidental. “The name they gave you. What was it?”
Eyes thoughtful—blue, green, brown, white—she caressed the rim of her mug. The nail of her finger lengthened and shortened. It became wide, then narrow. The fluctuations in her appearance were rapid. I wondered if the instability was her natural state, or an indication of a flaw in the spell.
Suddenly, her gaze darted up to meet mine. “You have a peculiar habit. You ask questions to which you already know the answer.”
I studied her a moment longer. I tried to deny what was staring at me.
She can’t be.
She has to be.
“Fate,” I said. “You’re B’naach, God of Fate.”
She offered a slight, affirmative nod. “Come. I have something to show you.” Standing, she waited for me to rise. Fate linked her arm in mine, and the shock of pleasure nearly knocked me off my feet. When she released me at the well a moment later, the sudden lack of her was equally jolting.
I set aside the shuddering coldness and studied the round structure.
The outside of the well was the plain gray of old granite. Inside, the curved walls of the water-filled shaft were peppered with hundreds, possibly thousands, of tiny stones. As Fate passed both hands over the well the stone flecks came to life. The water glimmered with their reflection. Waves rippled across the surface as the auras leaked out.
Watching them vibrate and writhe, like a nest of colored sea snakes, it was easy to grasp how the Langorians had misinterpreted the décor when they moved in. Taking the rampant, serpent-like theme used by my ancestors far more literal than it was meant, the Langorians adopted the design as a symbol of dominance over their former masters.
But it was never snakes that filled the keep. It was magic.
“These mountains,” she said, with a loose wave at the walls, “have always contained great wealth. Long ago, a good amount was above ground, lying near the surface or in the bottom of streambeds. It was an ambitious man by the name of Nam’arelle who decided to go deeper. He dug into this room and discovered the mysterious creatures that dwelled within.”
“Creatures?”
“The early Shinree were less educated than those who built the empire. They were unable to fathom energy existing in something that, by their comprehension, was not alive. So, in the same way as their minds branded me a god, they saw the auras as living creatures.”
I stared into the well. “How did the miners discover this room?”
“It was quite by accident. Though in later years, they would claim I brought them. They believed B’naach influenced every level of their lives. The hole where they dug in,” she pointed to the ceiling, “has since been closed. But it was once the sole entrance to the mine. Through it, they came to marvel at what dwelled inside the well. Prayers and offerings were made. They dipped hands into the water and became one with the auras, creating the first spells. Their workings were haphazard, without focus. But they were pure; conceived by the heart and strengthened by the soul.”
“What about the hornblende?”
“They had no knowledge then of its influence. Underground streams offered some protection, and cascades like you see here grew in number as the mining efforts hollowed out the mountains. In later years, the elementals learned of a more internal method to combat the dark stone. Unfortunately, the discovery was made late in Emperor Tam’s reign and the method became buried as most things Shinree…under the weight of dirt and oppression.”
“Do you know it?” She nodded, and my excitement was plain. “Can you tell me the spell?”
“There is no spell. The only shield needed against the hornblende is you.” At my questioning frown, Fate laughed. The shape and size of her eyes, nose, and mouth varied as she spoke. “Is there not water in your body, in your blood? If you can isolate the liquid with your mind, you can use it to block the damaging impact of the stone. In theory, an erudite could rally the water in others as well, though the feat was never attempted.”
“Amazing,” I grinned. “You just made Jem’s best defense useless.”
“Shall I continue?”
My trust of her growing, I nodded. “Please.”
“Word spread quickly. More came each day in hopes of creating their own miracle when they touched the stones. They decided to expand the mine, believing it would free the creatures, allowing them to flow into the cracks and crevices and populate the range. Of course, the magic was already there. It was simply waiting to be noticed.”
Her knowledge of my people was staggering. I had so many questions. But I couldn’t take every detour. “What happened next?”
“For many years the Shinree returned here to watch the well. They had come to realize the auras were elsewhere, but the beauty of those confined and reflected in the water was captivating. It took time for the idea of purposeful crafting to emerge, for the Shinree to shape their wants with words and direction.”
“And you? How did you come about?”
“Wishes upon dreams, upon secret desires; many a petition these walls have heard. And each was made with great intent. As the scholars came to understand in later years: intention is everything in magic. Even those intentions not yet realized or recognized hold great power, as does their foundations, such as faith and hope.” She eyed me with interest. “You have come to see that of late, have you not? How great power can be found in hope. Just as great despair can be found where it is lacking.”
I didn’t care for how closely Fate had been keeping track of me. “Go on.”
“The Shinree comprehended their evolution, but when they could find no cause for it, they turned to faith. Magic became a gift from the gods.
Each spell was celebrated and worshiped. Prayers were spoken over the well asking for the gods to appear, to bless this birth or that marriage. Imagine their surprise when I appeared.”
“You were manifested from all that faith and all those spells, all the magic that bounced around inside this chamber year after year. It gave birth to you. I understand that. But why label you as Fate?”
“My body is comprised of the auras that produced my spell. They vibrate at a specific rate to create what you see. While I am capable of holding one, my form is essentially ever-changing…like fate itself.” Moving closer, she leaned in and put a hand to my face. The pulse of her magic seeped in, spreading through my layers; wrapping them in warmth. My scars burned and hummed with a pain so exquisite. It resonated through me. Her vibration quenched an unrealized hunger; like a long awaited storm breaking over a parched land.
In my ear, her voice swayed to something more masculine as she whispered, “My rhythm is one you know well, is it not?”
“Magic-blind,” I gasped. “It feels like this, like you. How…?”
“I am not a single spell, L’tarian. I am many spells, held forever at the cusp of being born.” Her feminine sound returned. “When I touch you, your body feels the reward of those spells.”
“But I didn’t cast you.”
“You have prayed to me have you not?”
“I’ve cursed Fate more than I’ve prayed.”
“I know.” She glided behind me. Removing the harness on my back and the sword attached to it, she took my shirt next. I didn’t care to stop her. My interest was only in the vibrating tingle her breath provoked as it hit my scarred back. “Is this what you came for?”
I lowered my gaze. In my hands was a stone tablet. The runes it held were similar to those carved into the tablet Jem revealed to me in the past. Except, these runes were moving. The strokes and symbols were shifting like Fate’s appearance.
Abruptly, the alterations stopped.
“Can you show me how to read this?” I shot her a glance over my shoulder. When I looked back, the tablet’s face had darkened. The runes were blurring and fading. Their grooves became indistinct. Cracks formed along the edges of the piece. They spread inward, and the stone began to break.
The Crown of Stones: Magic-Borne Page 34